A Yearly Date With Fleetwood Mac and the Planner

THE night before the world was supposed to implode as foretold by a creative interpretation of the Mayan calendar, I replaced my own calendar. I do this every year. I’m not talking about the three seconds it takes to tear the plastic from a mollusk-of-the-month calendar and nail it to the wall. I wouldn’t bore you with that story. Open, bang-bang, throw-out 2012. End of article. What I do requires extended physical and mental fortitude. I shut myself in a room for an hour, turn on the Fleetwood Mac, release the springs of my day planner, and hope for the best.

Yes, I have a day planner. No, I do not keep an AARP card in it. When I graduated from college in 2000, my very stylish aunt (which sounds like a mnemonic for the planets but is really a woman with an affinity for leather goods) gave me a scarlet Louis Vuitton agenda. I barely make a move without it. I look at ladies with cigarette clutches at fancy affairs and I think: where do they keep their lives, in their phones? How strange. Apparently a common mistake of the modern world is to enter an event on the right day but wrong month or the right month but the wrong year. Of my many problems, this has never been one. Since graduation, I have measured time in 4-by-5-inch pieces of paper, four days on the left and three on the right. Every social engagement, interview, reading, flight, doctor’s appointment, birthday and dry-cleaning reminder has been handwritten between metal loops.

At the end of each year, I sit on the floor and go page by page through the old calendar, inking annual events into the new one, all the while watching my year in “dinner withs” skate by. When I’m done, I save the old calendar in the box of the new one and put it with the others on a shelf. It should be simple. But this way of life comes at a price.

Photo

The saved contents of the planner from years gone by.Credit
Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

As a genuinely absurd indulgence, I buy only the Louis Vuitton refills. The agenda itself is the one item I own from the brand, and my commitment to the gold-trimmed paper transcends reason. The price has increased to $50 from $20. To put it in perspective: In 2001, $20 seemed like an outrageous sum for a pile of hole-punched paper. I remember the first time I approached the stationery counter at the Louis Vuitton flagship on Fifth Avenue. I was awash in a kind of Swiss cheese outrage: There are holes in it! It’s not even all of the paper! Years later, in 2013? Filofax sells a refill with the same measurements ... for $7.

The planner also presents a host of logistical concerns. I have opted out of fun-seeming activities because, having left the planner at home, I can still picture my own handwriting. I know I have something I can’t “get out of.” Later, I walk into my bedroom to find: “buy Windex.“ Meanwhile, the threat of losing the thing is forever looming. I live an unbacked-up life. At a holiday party, to the horrification of those around me, I used my new phone as a coaster. I didn’t see what the big deal was. It’s not like I had put the drink on the planner.

So why bother? It’s not because I’m an avowed Luddite. It’s because of that hour at the end of every year. I suspect it’s the closest I will ever come to time travel. What I have is not a diary. There can be no interpreting of events that haven’t happened yet. It’s not even reliable, as screenings and housewarmings are written down and missed. In clueless handwriting, a particularly haunting entry for Tuesday the 11th in 2001 reads: “Media Bistro party, 6:30 — 286 W. Bway.”

In recent years, I have found myself scrawling more wedding anniversaries and children’s birthdays. A good sign for continued life on earth no matter what the Mayan calendar says. As a bonus, I get this unadorned, unrevised record of my life — a rarity for a writer. The transfer session isn’t always a pleasant experience. Hence the Fleetwood Mac. But that’s part of why I love it. The innocence of certain events can be cringe-inducing when I think of what an emotional cue ball break they were in retrospect. There are also social conundrums to be faced. Some birthdays have ceased to transfer, some are new. And what if your birthday is in November and we’ve just met? Will you want me thinking of you on the eve of 2014? Will I want to be reminded of you then? I write in ink.

A version of this article appears in print on January 3, 2013, on Page E5 of the New York edition with the headline: A Yearly Date With Fleetwood Mac and the Planner. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe